“Don’t drive too fast or recklessly,” the towkay had warned, handing me the key to the pickup and the invoice for the goods. “When you reach Mae Tuan make straight for Nai Boonchuay’s. It’s a big village, but ask anyone and they’ll tell you the way to his store.”

“What about the police?” I asked.

“They shouldn’t be any problem,” the towkay said. “I’ve seen to that. I’ll expect you back sometime tomorrow evening.”

The first two hundred kilometers of the roller-coaster highway spun by easily enough, as the road was paved. Then at the top of a rise I saw the sign to Mae Tuan. Swinging the pickup off the main road and staring up at an impossibly steep grade, I shifted down and stepped on the gas. The pickup was in fine tune and we fairly shot up to the top, where the road turned to a dusty red laterite. After that, the journey alternated between long stretches of ragged forests and denuded open spaces, crossing hills and skirting valleys. For hours I saw not a soul, nor a sign of one. Finally there was another steep grade ahead. I revved her up and, fairly flying over the mound at the top, entered a wide grassy clearing bordered by neatly planted orchards and had to jam on the brakes: I had almost whizzed past a sparse roadside settlement.

To the left was a large timber shed. On the opposite side of the road, was a small hut raised on posts which, at closer inspection, turned out to be a police guardhouse. A gray-haired policeman dozed in a rocking chair on the porch. Further down the road there were a few more buildings, all smaller than the first.

A large mango tree stood near the shed.  I parked the pickup in its shade and walked towards the building. The tree was in fruit and clusters of mangoes dangled invitingly on long stalks from the branches. The mangoes were large and plump and a deep green color. Perhaps they were still sour, I thought, because no one had picked them.

The shed was a simple affair with a wide door that swung up as an awning. The front part consisted of rough tables and chairs, and a stall for making coffee and noodles. There were jars of sweets and cakes on display, and a small showcase with cracked glass which held cigarettes and other odds and ends.

An old woman, her hair tied up in a bun, was brewing coffee at the stall. Her face was deeply lined and her gums blackened. Two dark, beak-nosed Karens, dressed identically in black Chinese trousers and red tops, sat at one table smoking short bamboo pipes and talking.

The back of the store was raised two or three feet aboveground. Sacks of rice and other goods cluttered the platform and well-stocked shelves lined the rear. A doorway led to the back of the building, hidden from view by a limp strip of cloth hanging from the doorframe.

“So you’re towkay Suang’s new driver,” the old woman piped, having seen me alight from the pickup. “What’s it going to be? Noodles?” I nodded and said, “Bring me a bottle of orange juice, too. I’m thirsty.” I sat down at an empty table. The old woman made coffee for the Karens and then brought me the juice with a glass of ice.

There was a loud squeal from under the Karen’s table. I then noticed a young pig trussed up on the floor. It was a plump, pink boar of a foreign breed. The old woman, seeing me eye it, said, “They brought it all the way from Chiang Mai.” Then, when she brought me my bowl of noodles, she added, “They reckon to mate it with the sows in their village—improve the strain, like.  Bah! It won’t last two months up in these hills.”

I tucked into the hot noodles with relish. The journey had made me ravenous and the aroma of the steam rising from the bowl enhanced my enjoyment of the food. The presence of the pig didn’t dampen my appetite at all.

Just as I was calling out for a second helping, a buxom young woman carrying two buckets of water balanced on a flat bamboo pole came jogging towards us. She moved jerkily under the weight of the load and her breasts under her blouse bounced with each step. She eased the buckets down carefully onto the ground in front of the store. Then she propped the pole against a wall, picked up the buckets and carried them with quick shuffling steps behind the stall. She hefted the buckets up one at a time and poured the water into a large jar. Her plump arms flashed white as porcelain as she worked.

When she completed this chore she put the buckets away in a corner. As she squatted down she revealed the outlines of shapely hips and thighs encased in her gaily-pattered panung. “That’s four buckets,” she said to the old woman. “They should do us the whole day, shouldn’t they?” Her face, a little wide and plump, was not unpleasant when she smiled.

“See what the young man wants,” the old woman instructed. I repeated my order. The young woman prepared it and then brought it to me. She stood by watching me eat.

“You’re a bit green to be driving for towkay Suang, aren’t you?” she asked, sizing me up. “What’s your name? How old are you?”

“I’ve been in the army,” I replied defensively. “Name’s Vinai.”

“Old enough,” she said. She smiled again, showing her white even teeth. “All the same, be careful on the return journey,” she warned.

“Why?” I pretended innocence.

“Hah! You should know that better than me.” Then, in a conciliatory tone, she added, “You look like a decent guy. On the return trip you can sleepover here. Don’t risk getting caught by the police. We have spare quilts and a mosquito net.”

“Thanks,” I replied, “I’ll keep that in mind.” It was something to fall back on, I thought, eyeing her rosy cheeks and white throat dipping into her blouse.

The Karens got up and paid for their coffee and cakes. They then slipped a thick bamboo pole through the ropes binding the pig’s feet and carried it upside down, kicking and squealing, out of the store and down the road.

“Thank goodness they’re gone,” the young woman said. She grabbed a broom and, squatting down, started to sweep vigorously under the table. Her thin white blouse appeared too small to restrain her ripe breasts, which shook with the exertion. I couldn’t take my eyes away from them. They were round and ripe, like the plump mangoes. I was aroused and my blood seemed to be charged with electricity. She kept meeting my eyes, an Eve tempting Adam.

A shadow fell across the table, forcing me to tear my eyes away from her. It was the policeman.  He stood just outside the store and looked at me distractedly, a man of about fifty, short and spry. The green jacket that he wore over his khaki uniform made him appear bulkier than he was. The tip of his holster protruded from under the jacket. His face was dark and he had thick, black eyebrows. A faint scar ran across the left cheek. I felt uneasy under his scrutiny. “Won’t you join me for lunch, sergeant?” He hesitated a moment, then broke into a wide grin, revealing crooked, tobacco-stained teeth.

“I’ve eaten, thanks,” he said. “Could do with a little booster, though. Eed! Bring me a finger of whiskey, will you.” Turning to me, he said, “So, towkay Suang is up to his old tricks again, is he? As long as he pays his way, I don’t mind. It’s when he tries to get smart…” He made a throat-slashing gesture. I looked away uneasily. Everyone was grabbing what they could, and the police were taking their cut.

A little later it was time to be getting on. I called to Eed, the young woman, and paid for my meal. I offered to pay for the sergeant’s drinks too, but he wouldn’t let me. “On your way back, you could bring me a couple bottles of Boonchuay’s moonshine. Mae Tuan brew sure is potent stuff. They don’t call it “Stargazer” for nothing. It’s guaranteed to put stars in your eyes!” He guffawed at his own joke.

I walked to the pickup and got in. Eed had come outside and was leaning against the front of the store. I started up the engine and gave her a parting wave as I drove past. She smiled and made a sign with her hand. I didn’t get her signal, but whatever it was it sure made me impatient to get back.

The red laterite road soon turned into a narrow, bumpy forest track, very steep in places. I passed Karens trudging along. They flagged me down for a lift and, for company, I obliged them. When they alighted they pressed a few baht into my hands as payment, for they wouldn’t accept charity. It took another four hours of steady driving to reach Mae Tuan.

It was late evening by the time I crossed a rickety timber bridge over a wide, muddy river and entered the Mae Tuan valley. The sun was already dipping behind a distant line of hills and darkness was descending rapidly. I encountered only a few boys chasing some straggling water buffaloes homeward.

I stopped to ask the way to Boonchuay’s store several times at a number of the lamplit homes. It was very dark when at last I found it. Boonchuay was standing with his wife in front waiting for me. He had heard the sound of the pickup, the engine’s drone carries for miles in the quiet valley, he explained.

I stayed the night with him as towkay Suang had told me to do. Dead tired, I ate the food he provided and went straight to bed. The next morning I woke up late and found the pickup already loaded with tobacco leaves. Boonchuay had also refilled the gas tank from the spare can I carried for the return trip. Then I remembered the sergeant’s message.

“Can you spare a couple bottles of moonshine for the old policeman?”

“I’ve put two bottles in your bag for him,” he said. “But be careful. I don’t trust him.”

“What about Eed?”

“Let’s go have breakfast and you can listen to what I have to say.”

While we were eating he said, “Tell towkay Suang on the next trip I want another five baht a kilo for the tin ore. There are other buyers in the valley and if we don’t go high enough, we won’t get the ore.

“How much are you sending out?” I asked. I knew the ore, which had been mined illegally, had been stashed in the back under the tobacco leaves because the pickup truck was riding low.

“About a ton. You shouldn’t have any trouble at any of the regular police checkpoints. They’ve all been sewn up by towkay Suang. If you hear of a special police unit setting up a checkpoint near Chiang Mai, lie low at Eed’s.”

“Can I trust her?”

“Up to you.”

“What happens if I’m caught?”

“Then you’re on your own.”

I arrived back at Eed’s place at about one in the afternoon. The journey so far had been uneventful. I met hardly a soul on the way. The only thing eating me up was that there might be a police checkpoint at Hot. I parked under the mango tree and got out. I glanced towards the guardhouse. Old Scarface was nowhere in sight. The old woman was hunched up on the platform smoking a cheroot. There were some travelers sitting at one of the tables, and Eed was serving them.

“Where’s the sergeant?” I asked her.

“Round the back somewhere. Or sleeping off a hangover.”

She walked over to me and said softly, “I heard from a customer that police have set up a checkpoint at Hot. If you want to stop here for the night, take the pickup round to the back. It’ll be less conspicuous there.”

I did some thinking. There was no way I could bypass Hot. I would have to go through the checkpoint. It would be risky. The sensible thing to do would be to stay the night here. But was Eed sticking her neck out to help me because she liked me, or because she was hoping to benefit in some way?

When she brought me my noodles she sat down opposite me, with her arms folded and resting on the table. She looked at me while I ate, amused at how hungry I was. When I finished I pushed the bowl away and wiped my mouth. She leaned forward and I could see her breasts beneath the blouse. They were gently heaving as if she’d just come from running. I stared from her breasts to her face. She stared back and smiled, but didn’t say a word.

I knew then I had to spend the night there. So I got up and drove the pickup round to the back. There were steps leading to a porch. I went up and lay down on the wooden bench running round the porch and dozed off.

When I awoke it was late in the afternoon. I sat up and remained motionless, waiting for my head to clear. It was hot and quiet and still, and very lonely. Then I noticed a long bamboo pole leaning against one of the trees in the orchard. It had a small wicker basket at the end for picking fruit. I fetched it and carried it round to the mango tree in front. I looked towards the front of the store and found it empty of customers. Across the road old Scarface was back dozing in his chair.

I selected the largest and plumpest mango I could find. I reached up for it with the pole and, with a flick of the wrist, had it in the basket. I took it out of the basket and cupped it in my hands, stroking its smooth skin. My finger tips tingled as they lightly traced its contours; the sensation sparked images of other curves in my brain. A little blob of milk-white sap oozed out from the tip where it had been attached to the stalk.

I carried my prize inside and found Eed alone on the platform. I gave her the mango. She took out a knife, peeled it, and gave it back to me. I ran my tongue over the fruit, tasting its aroma. I expected to find it sour, but it was sweet and juicy, with a tang. When I finished eating, I returned to the back porch.

At about five-thirty I heard Eed closing up the store. Presently she came out the back door onto the porch. She had changed into a black panung which was hitched high over her bosom. She carried a bucket and was heading for a bath at the outhouse. She walked with swaying hips and had tied her towel like a turban round her head. As she passed by she looked at me with her soft, dark eyes. I felt a terrible yearning in the pit of my stomach. I watched her as she walked down the steps. Her round shoulders glowed white against her long black hair.

The outhouse was about fifteen yards from the porch and I could see it from where I lay slouching on the bench. There was a huge water jar outside. Eed filled the bucket with water from the jar and knelt down. She poured water over her face and body from a little bowl and lathered the exposed parts of her body with soap. The water made her panung cling tightly to her body. She loosened the panung and lathered her breasts. Then she hitched up the garment and in the fading light her legs and thighs glowed white as she scrubbed them. When she finished her bath she slipped a dry panung over her head and let the wet one slip to the ground. By the time she came back up the porch the light had almost faded.

By seven it had become completely dark. There was nothing to do except to go to bed. Eed provided me with a quilt and mosquito net that I strung up on the porch. She’s a mango, the plumpest of them all, dangling just out of my reach. “Come to me later,” I said. She didn’t reply. As I lay curled up under the quilt I could hear old Scarface singing drunkenly from far off. Earlier in the evening he’d come to get his moonshine from me and now I was hearing its effect.

At the back of the store, only a few yards from where I lay, I could hear Eed and the old woman moving about in their room. A flickering yellow light peeped through cracks in the boards. I thought of Eed and visualized her white arms and shoulders and buxom, shapely body. Drowsily, I wondered what were the chances she’d come to me later in the night when the old woman was asleep.

I dozed off and dreamt that I was picking mangoes, baskets of them. I fondled each one before placing them in a jar. Someone put a dark, wiry hand on my shoulder. I turned round to see my nemesis, Scarface’s cynical, laughing mug. “Stealing our mangoes, are you? You wouldn’t last two months in these hills,” he cackled.

Then there was some commotion. “The truck,” I thought. “Someone’s trying to get at the truck.” I ripped off the quilt and tore out of the mosquito net. I bumped into someone in the dark. We grappled for a moment and I realized, from her jasmine scent and the softness of her body in my arms, that it was Eed. “It’s me,” she said. “I heard someone prowling about down below.” She thrust a shotgun into my hands. “Here, take this.”

I grabbed it and ran down the steps to the truck. I tried the cab doors. They were locked. I examined the back of the truck. The tarpaulin covering the tobacco leaves hadn’t been disturbed. Whoever it was had been scared off by all the noise I had made.

I walked slowly back up the steps. “He’s gone,” I said. “I’d better keep the shotgun, in case he comes back.” I reached out and groped for Eed’s hand and gave it a tug. She came willingly. I grinned as I recalled the tangy flavor of the mango.

The next day I returned to Chiang Mai. There was no checkpoint at Hot that day. I continued driving for towkay Suang down that long and winding road for considerably longer than two months. Eed always made my trips a joy.

About the author:

Trirat Petchsingh is a contemporary Thai writer who writes fiction in English rather than Thai. He was born in 1954 in Petchaboon, Thailand but was educated abroad, earning a degree in engineering from the University of New South Wales. In 2007, Bangkok Book House published his debut book, a collection of short stories entitled Thai Mangoes.

“The sea is never always calm,
The sky, sometimes, not blue,
But nothing on Earth can ever change
The friendship we hold true!”

I remember fighting back tears when I wrote this poem in my best friend’s yearbook. It was the last day of school, but the first day of the rest of our lives.

Slowly, Aisha read my little verse with glistening eyes. Finally, she whispered, “It’s beautiful! Thank you!” She looked almost embarrassed when she returned my yearbook where, beneath her picture, Aisha had merely drawn a heart, with the words “Best friends 4ever!” framed within it.

“I wish I had your gift of words, May. What I wrote for you is just so boring and cheesy by comparison!”

I merely waved a hand dismissively, and shrugged the compliment off. At that time, being the ‘brain’ of the class meant that I was uncomfortable with anyone singling me out for what I considered my ‘geekiness’.

“You draw a beautiful heart, though,” I replied lamely, admiring how the drawing twinkled in the sun, thanks to Aisha’s use of her favourite glitter pen.

There was a moment of contemplative silence, then:

“Promise me you’ll come visit during the holidays, May.”

“Of course, Aisha. As long as you promise to come visit me in London!” Even as I said this, we both knew that would never happen. Her parents ran a small mobile fruits stall, a motorised tricycle laden with whatever the tiny orchard in Aisha’s home village could provide: bananas, mangoes, papayas, rambutans*, and, if they were lucky, any wild durians* Aisha’s father happened to come across in the jungle. Every morning at dawn, the fruits were piled onto the motorcycle, and Aisha’s father would drive an hour to the nearest town to hawk his produce.

There was no way she could afford the plane ticket to England.

Although neither of us mentioned it, we both knew we were destined to walk different paths from now on; I had secured a place at a prestigious British university, and I have dreams of settling down abroad. Aisha, on the other hand, could not afford higher education. She would be helping her parents with their fruits stall and orchard, and maybe, just maybe, save enough eventually for a course at a local college.

Somewhere at the back of my young mind, I feared what the distance would do to our friendship, one borne from years of hanging around together, gossiping over a shared bowl of ais kacang*, bemoaning fledgling love affairs under the shade of the old tree in the school field.

The toot of a car horn signalled the arrival of my ride home.

“Do you want a lift?” I asked Aisha.

“Nah, I’ll walk home. Besides, you have a lot of packing to do.”

We embraced tearfully, drawing out our farewell, not wanting to let one another go, but Aisha finally pulls away.

“Heh, go now, or you’ll miss your flight!”

That was ten years ago.

Today, I sit by the window of my London apartment, flipping through my old yearbook, smiling as the old memories come flooding back. I found it in a musty corner while clearing out the store room, underneath a pile of moth-eaten university textbooks I will most likely never use again, but which the hoarder in me refused to throw away. Beside it, in a battered old shoe box, were the letters Aisha had sent me. I have kept each and every one of them.

Seized by a longing for some nostalgic reminiscing, I decided to take leave of the housework, made myself a cup of tea, and settled down on my window seat. Lifting the dented lid off the shoe box, I removed the stack of letters, each one written on flowery, girly paper in various shades of pastel. The heady perfume that used to infuse the pages is now but a faint, almost imperceptible, bittersweet reminder of what used to be. Aisha’s neat handwriting, round and cherubic as the girl herself, smiled at me from the yellowing pages. Ever the obsessive tidiness freak, I had filed the mail in chronological order.

The first one was dated only a week after I arrived in the United Kingdom, all those years ago:

“Hey, May! I hope you’ve settled down OK in London. Getting culture shock yet? Have you met the Queen?…”

The second one came a couple of months after the first:

“Merry X’mas! Thanks for writing back! I’m glad to know you’re having fun! Hahaha, I would have liked to see you getting hit by that snowball! I’ve never even seen snow…”

The third was almost a year later:

“Happy birthday! Don’t worry about the late reply, I’m just glad you wrote back! I was getting worried! I still haven’t gotten a computer, so can’t e-mail you, I’m afraid. No house phone yet, either, let alone hand phone*! I’m sure if I had any of these, it would be so much quicker and more convenient to keep in contact…”

More than a year after that:

“I hope you’re well. I haven’t heard from you in ages! But I guess you’re busy studying. It’s your final year now, right? I’ve pretty much given up on ever going to college…too expensive…”

The last letter from Aisha dates back more than four years, right before I moved from a small rented studio flat, to this, a penthouse apartment, my pride and joy, my first rung on the property ladder, a result of years of scrimping, saving, long hours at work, and a little help from my parents’ slush fund.

I realise that I never sent Aisha my forwarding address.

“Me again! Have you graduated yet? You must have! So what are you doing now? Working? Or are you doing postgraduate stuff? I need updates!  Never got a reply from you for my last two letters…you still alive??”

I sigh as the guilt inside my heart grows. I had been too busy with my new life and career to keep in touch with my oldest friend. As I think of the little poem I wrote in Aisha’s yearbook, I smile wistfully at our childish naïveté:

Nothing on Earth can ever change / The friendship we hold true.

But our friendship has changed, hasn’t it? It has stretched itself thin over the distance and the time spent apart, and, like the glittery ink on Aisha’s letters, it is now but a faded shadow of its former sparkly self. I never went back to Malaysia as often as I would have liked, so I probably only saw Aisha for a grand total of four hours in the past decade. As we communicate less and less often, I know that, sad as it may sound, we will one day lose touch completely, and the warm fires of our childhood friendship would be forgotten, like smouldering embers shoved aside in the fireplace of our subconscious.

But something compels me to pick up my pen, just for old times’ sake. Picking up one of the ivory-coloured cards uncharacteristically strewn across my normally spotless work desk, I begin to write:

“Aisha! It’s been a while! Sooo sorry I went AWOL! Not much space to say a lot here, but as you can see from this card, I’m getting married! And you’re invited!…”

I finish the short note, and seal the invitation in a lilac envelope. I know Aisha wouldn’t be able to come all the way to London for the wedding, but I just want her to know I am thinking of her.

It is the least I can do for having neglected our friendship for so long.

—

The doorbell rings as my mother is helping me into my gown. After giving his cravat one final adjustment, my father answers the door, but I am so excited about the wedding, I pay no attention to the exchange.

When Pa returns, he holds a package in his hands.

“May, you have a present.”

“Uh-huh…” I mumble distractedly, as I struggle to get my veil to drape just right. “Just leave it in my room, Pa.”

“It’s from Malaysia.”

My busy hands stop their fussing and fluttering in mid-air. Pa hands me the rather hefty parcel, and I immediately recognise Aisha’s tubby penmanship. As Ma continues to do my hair, I open the box with trembling fingers. The brown wrapping falls away, revealing a soft velvet box of midnight blue. Inside, nestled in crushed satin, are two identical pewter* goblets, the most beautiful ones I have ever seen. My name is carved in intricate cursive script on one of them, my husband-to-be’s name on the other. Pewter ware is expensive, and the craftsmanship on these goblets, with the fine engraving around its lip, is exquisite. How could Aisha afford this?

My eyes mist up with tears at the sight of what I find taped to the inside of the box. It is a photograph, taken more than ten years ago. Younger, plumper, more innocent versions of Aisha and me smile cheekily at the camera, as we squat, hand in hand, under the gnarled old tree in the school field.

Behind the photo is a message:

“Dearest May,

A THOUSAND CONGRATULATIONS!!! How I wish I could be there at your wedding! Sadly, I still can’t afford a flight ticket after all these years. Pathetic, huh? Also, Abah* is very ill. Doctors say he has cancer, so I have to stay and take care of him. But I just had to get you something for your big day. Hope you like your gift!

May, I know we don’t talk as often as we did in the old days, but I want to say that I always think of you, and thank Allah everyday for our friendship. As much as we may want to think otherwise, our friendship has definitely changed, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t as strong as before!

I’m not as good a poet as you, so please don’t laugh at my attempt! This took me hours! Here goes:

Though rivers dry and mountains go,
Though spring will soon give way to snow,
Our friendship bond shall never break,
And ‘tis a solemn vow I make.

Best Wishes & All My Love,

Aisha x”

“May,” my mother gently taps me on the shoulder. “We need to finish off.”

By this point, I am trying my best to wipe the tears from my eyes without smudging my makeup. I place the box lovingly on my vanity, and make myself a mental note:

Tomorrow, I shall sit down and write Aisha a letter. Then, I am going to arrange a brief stopover in Malaysia during our honeymoon.

No way am I going to let such a wonderful friend fall by the wayside again…

Glossary:

Abah - Malay term for father

Ais kacang – Malaysian sweet dessert comprising beans, peanuts, jellies and other condiments, topped with shaved ice, condensed milk and syrup

Durian - Pungent Southeast Asian fruit with a hard, thorny shell

Hand phone – Mobile phone

Pewter – Tin alloy, popularly used in Malaysia for fine crafting

Rambutan – Southeast Asian fruit related to the lychee, with soft fleshy spines resembling hair, hence its name derived from the Malay word rambut (hair)

About the author:

J.C. Martin was born in Malaysia but now lives in south London with her fiancé and three dogs. She is currently working on a few novels that she hopes to get published. She works as a kung fu instructor to help fund her writing obsession.

I know it is my midlife crisis, numerically – I’m 40, and in my bones; they ache.

I am hauling a 30 pound rucksack over about eight mountain crests a day, more than one a mile, on the Appalachian Trail which leads 2000 miles from Georgia to Maine. I intend a 6 month retreat hike – to solve the mystery of my life.

Truth be told, I know I will not make it. And it may well be that I intend to die somewhere out there, in the trees. I used to love trees. At first crest I’m already in trouble with a view of trees far as eye can see which holds for me as little beauty as my lungs hold air.

Down I go sucking water, trying to imagine myself that man again who lived two years in a mud hut as forester to Sahara, true story: passing out in ant hill, under thorn bush, sucking cow mud through bandana just to stay alive… adventure remaining, thirst, thirst entirely forgotten.

In the valley I spot the blue blaze which means water nearby. Where? Where? Panic! Where? This trickle? I fill my bottles capful. By capful.

On the next crest I lick dew off pine needles.

Down again thinking of Paris, of pastries I never dreamed, inaccessible as art untouchable – in Musée d’Orsay, Louvre, l’Orangerie… to a struggling student sans six sous penniless, oh but what façade.

I bottom out, climb and crest again, sit to eat. Hummus mix and banana chips are great nutritionally, and light to carry, but require lots of water. This is all I have to eat for the next week.

Down another earth stone I step gingerly, every step a quest, which way, as tiny stones under foot, under leaf, impossible to see, turn a foot this way, that – off path, off life, heavy pack on back overbalancing… remembering that waterfall I climbed in Mexico: how I slipped, freefell, grabbed a tree root thirty feet down, never felt so alive.

Valley. Peak. Valley. Some crests now show snow. Fading light reflects.

I race down to set up tent as stars rise thinking of the cold in China where heat is not allowed below a certain parallel before a certain date and no clothes could be found in my size and I felt it felt it in my bones, in my b-b-b-bones.

Lie at last in the any valley. So dark: a dark as dark as the death of my wife, the end of also my life.

Morning brings dread another climb. Does the sun rise tired some days?

Each step torture. Thinking of Thailand. Teacher again. Students all the same. Don’t care. Lesson today: despair. Repeat, “despair”. Globalization. For R & R I go – to the mall. Called Future Park. There is

No Future. Timeless. Architects hide. Clocks. Make you shop

Long, er. Endless. Atopia.

Slogans say: Live your life! Happy!

Supreme health benefit. Stop!

I can’t breath.

Just stop. I no longer want health. I eat Big Macs and cry openly.

I stop climbing. This is one mountain too many. There is always one mountain too many. I turn around. The journey of a million miles ends with a single step.

About the author:

A.D. Thompson is an American writer and former Bangkok resident born in 1971 and reared (not bred) in Texas. In 2007 he published Diner Dharma – A Monk in Trouble in West Texas, a roman à clef considered by some his “enduring masterpiece.”

A snow-white ceiling, an electric lamp in the middle. This was the first image my eyes captured; I closed them promptly trying to catch the train of somnolence I fell from, yet, I found I could not.

I surrendered to the morning call as usual. I opened my eyes anew and looked at the window, the curtains were drawn; however, they couldn’t keep the sunlight from sneaking through towards my pillow. Damn it! How many times did I think about moving this bed so I wouldn’t wake up at dawn?

With a lot of effort, I stretched my sleepy hand slowly trying to reach the night table. The clock’s moving hand pointlessly activated its alarm, undergoing the waking task already accomplished by the sunlight.

Too heavy is this damn hour in the morning!!…or is it my hand that could not shake off its sleepiness? The clock read twenty to six. I put it back in place and waited a while before getting up from the comfortable bed.

I removed the cover from my warm body, sluggishly… my limbs shivered happily by the first cold breeze that has been waiting for so long!

I knew it would be a nice day! For no particular reason, just as it was a sunny day.

How much I missed such days! After a sterile winter that does not even deserve its name.  It is a winter unlike any other I witnessed in the past years and which we used to recall throughout summer and spring, scented with the warmness we sought in each and every corner.

Memories fragranced with roasted chestnuts and acorns, and night gatherings around the fireplace accompanied by grandmas’ tales – A winter which, unfortunately, no longer makes us remember, nor long for, anything but rain!!

I woke up once again!  But this time I awakened from the ideas and daydreams which gave me the deathblow in the early morning hours.

I put the radio on and changed stations until I heard a song for Fairouz. As if it was a tradition to be followed or an inevitable obligation. This singer’s music and songs have always been associated with the morning!!

I still have plenty of time before I have to go to college – two hours or more!! Nevertheless, I must get up!!

The smile overtook my lips without any forewarning, just for thinking about it?! Once again, I turned my eyes towards the clock – it is five past six!

Oh my God!

Less than ten minutes were left!  I jumped towards the mirror and started straightening my long shaggy hair!

I tried to conceal the contours and traces of somnolence off my face, then headed directly towards the window. I opened the curtains, and my slightly opened eyelids shrank more when they met the bright light which invaded the room -driving away darkness or what remained of it!

I stretched my arm to move from my eyes a lock of hair which was cast across my face by a short breeze. The street view was as usual – rarely does it change. Cars and buses transporting students, businessmen and employees, Peddlers increase the noise of the scene.  But I cared for none of that! I turned my eyes towards one particular house facing the window.

The sound of my heart beats was almost louder than any other sound. Even that of Fairouz!

Oh my God!! … He will be out in a few minutes!

Often have I laughed at, and mocked, all that I have watched and heard of love stories. I did not believe them to be true! Many times have I thought that they are full of exaggeration and overstatement! However, never did I think that I would one day bear grudge against writers of movies and soaps for not conveying even a notion of lovers’ true sentiment!

My entire day is conditioned by a sole glance from him! I wait for him every morning – content with watching him from afar! However, this is not all that I am planning to do! I am seeking more than that, but I dare not!! Several times I tried to find a reason to talk to him or even make him look at me!

What a damned life!

It is not a one-sided love, but an impossible love!

I believe, with some certainty, that for such a guy he must be attached. And by this time, he must have broken many hearts already! I knew all that and more. However, despite everything I would still love to see him at every given opportunity, at all times

Is it a miracle or exceptional hearing which made me aware of the sound of the key turning in his door? I adjusted my posture and pretended to be looking in another direction, but in a way that enabled me to see him going out.

What a disappointment! It was his sister leaving! Where does this insane girl go at such a time? I hated her just for the act of showing up! She beckoned with her head drawing a smile on her lips; I only shook my head in return, saluting her.

I did not wait for long – Less than three minutes later, the door was opened again. It was him! … Oh my God! … He looks more and more handsome every day? He has not been in that house for long – less than a month. As if I want him only for myself! I don’t want him to get to know anyone but me!

I do not think he even notices my presence, and as if he deliberately withholds his gaze from me.  He walked away quickly, my eyes following him until giving up to the curve in the road that swallowed him. I felt that same bitterness that takes over every day, at the same time, and for the same reason.

He would be about my age – In his early twenties – A guy who attracts people’s attention with his charisma and charm.

How can I control my feelings? No one taught me to look at him and love him, or dream of him by my side, or holding me in his arms. Yet this is what I felt – a strong desire destroyed all that I’ve learned during my short life, or at least the years that have gone by.

What a life!  What miserable and woeful creatures we are! We spend our lives learning theories, principles and ethics, and in the blink of an eye, we might sacrifice everything for an innate desire we’ve rarely heard about?  On the contrary, we used to be on the lookout, afraid of falling between its claws; it was considered a sin!

Is it a mere feral desire? I think not! … I love him! …What is wrong about that? … He will never love me? Why not? …. A hopeless love! … It is only a desire! … There is nothing called love! … But?! … What is it that I’m feeling?!

Why am I exhausting my body and mind! Why am I ruining my life, just for the sake of a desire or an ecstasy that I might reach all by myself! Within five minutes or even less, with five fingers!

Will I stop loving him then? I think not. Who taught me that? … No one…!

All of these ideas and worries went out of my mind as the ringing alarm on my night table broke the silence of my imagination.

I swallowed as if I was spitting at myself from the inside! For thinking about such matters.

I tried to forget, or pretend to have forgotten, all of that. I went back to Fairouz, to the noisy street and real life. Back to the same bitterness and grudge I carried against the society, values and ethics.

I shook my head as if I was forcefully shaking away all these questions and ideas. I was about to go out when I heard the repetitive knocks on the door followed by my mother’s calls:

“Adam?  Did you get up? … It is quarter to seven!”

I almost burst into laughter when I heard my name! …

Or maybe it was a strong urge to cry when hearing it? For it was the first thing in this morning that reminded me that I am a man.

I swallowed again and went to open the door.

About the Author:

Mohammad Aljarmoshi is a 27 years old male from Jordan in the Middle East. He is  a current student of MBA at Yarmouk University in Irbed-Jordan, and a bachelor degree holder of English Translation from ASU “Applied Science University” in Amman-Jordan.

It was a cool, pleasant evening.

Birds were chirping happily and tiny squirrels were playing around. Lolita enjoyed listening to those delightful sounds of nature as she watered the plants in her lovely garden. A fresh breeze, filled with the scent of fragrant flowers, lifted her spirits…she began humming her favorite tunes softly…

As she approached the gate, she noticed a tall, blonde girl in salwar-kurta. There were a few pieces of heavy luggage too. She looked tired after all that travel, but wore a beautiful smile.

She introduced herself as Caroline, a German research scholar majoring in tribal arts and handed over a letter addressed to Professor Majumdar, Lolita’s husband. Lolita welcomed her in. The girl took the garden hose and refreshed her aching hands and feet in the cool water. They relaxed themselves in the garden chairs and started a warm conversation…

Dr. Majumdar was an expert in arts and had a wide circle of friends. He invited them often and Lolita enjoyed their delightful company. She took part in their discussions with great enthusiasm and joined them whenever they went on research trips. She did everything to make them feel at home…

Lolita and Majumdar were not blessed with children. As days passed by, a deep bond blossomed between the three of them…Caroline even called them Mama and Papa… Lolita cooked her favorite dishes and Caroline talked a lot about her research…They spent a lot of time together in Lolita’s favorite garden… The local people soon got acquainted with Caroline… Among them was the postman, Baba…

He was a born artist. His skills at storytelling and singing had won many a heart. No festival in the locality was complete without his brilliant performance… He had a handicapped son, Nandu. Caroline found a great inspiration in Baba and his rich experience in performing arts was a treasure-trove for her research…

One evening, she visited Baba’s home and found Nandu alone, reading a book in his bed. She sat beside him and stroked his head gently..

“Nandu, I have got something for you… something you’ll love…”

She went back and fetched it – a wheelchair… She helped him sit on it and guided him around the house… The little boy was delighted…

“Thank you, didi!”

She hugged him.

They had just finished one round, when Baba returned from the post-office… He couldn’t believe it…The house suddenly seemed so lively…The expression on Nandu’s face overwhelmed him… His eyes were filled with tears of emotion… Caroline had opened up a whole new world for his dear child… He had no words to thank her…

“Madamji, how am I going to repay you for this?”

Caroline stopped him. “Babaji, I know what it feels to be bedridden…My brother is handicapped too… In Nandu, I see him… I am very happy”

After that, she visited Nandu often. She would read stories, play with him or take him for short walks…

Baba would sit and watch silently…

Soon, Caroline and Baba together organized performances in Lolita’s garden…These evoked a splendid response and media coverage gave them good exposure. Their activities received invitations from far and wide…Caroline became quite busy with her trips…

Months rolled by…

One day, Caroline came running with excitement and showed Lolita a letter… It was from Delhi. Her photograph – featuring a tribal youth – had won the first prize in a caption contest with the theme “Wild beauty”… Bheem – true to his name, was tall, sturdy and muscular…

“Congratulations! You’ve made it, dear… Let’s celebrate with your favorite kheer!”

While they sipped the delicious kheer, Lolita asked Caroline about the details of the photograph. As Caroline explained, Lolita noticed her unusual delight and enthusiasm…Her eyes shone and her lovely face brightened up in shades of expression…

Was she in love?

Lolita was confused at first…When Caroline was not around, she shared with Majumdar all that happened…They decided to have an open talk with Caroline..

She listened patiently to all that they fondly advised…and explained how she happened to meet him as a guide during her research trips… It was definitely not his rustic, yet handsome looks that attracted her, but something else…The feeling within her was so genuine and deep that she was prepared to take any amount of effort to make it happen…

Lolita and Majumdar were convinced… It was a special moment in their life…There were legal formalities to be cleared… and so many arrangements to be made…

Caroline’s parents in Germany were informed of the glad tidings… They were only too happy that their daughter had found her life-partner…

A date was fixed for the engagement…

Caroline had her own ideas… She wanted everything in Indian style – food, dress, music, everything…She was busy, but a bit upset…Her brother was in hospital – so her parents could not take part in the occasion…

That evening, as usual, Caroline was collecting flowers for prayer…She loved it and had even learnt a few chants by heart!

Lolita was waiting. Caroline placed the flowers on the pedestal and sat on the floor mat… Her eyes were closed and hands, folded in prayer.

Caroline’s lips began chanting softly…Lolita did not disturb her…

When she opened her eyes, she felt much better…A lovely smile adorned her face…

Lolita handed over a red silk saree, bangles, vermilion, turmeric and fresh flowers.

“It’s for you, dear… A small token of love from your Indian parents…”

Caroline’s eyes moistened… She clasped Lolita’s hands in emotion…

The engagement was a simple affair…Both Baba and Nandu were present… A small party in the garden – complete with dances, folk-songs and music… Caroline’s face blushed…She looked lovely in her red silk saree… It was a happy moment for everyone…

She sent the album to her parents and they sent her loads of gifts… Tokens of love from dear ones far, far away…

Months flew past…

Caroline had succeeded in ‘civilizing’ Bheem a bit…He now wore a pyjama-kurta and had cut his hair short. He had even learnt a few words in German!

Soon Caroline was busy preparing for her trip back home… Her term was getting over and she had to return… Now she had all those formalities to complete before taking Bheeman to Germany…And that would mean a gap of at least one year…

“Mama, it seems too long for me…”

Lolita gently stroked her hair… “Don’t worry dear… We are all here to take care of your sweetheart!”

Caroline shook her head: “Oh no, it is not that… how could I be so selfish? I will really miss you all – Babaji, Nandu, everyone… I shall keep writing… you must help Bheem read my letters – will you, Mama?”

“So, you really want me to read out all those ‘sweet nothings’, hm?” – Lolita teased her, with a twinkle in her eyes…

Caroline blushed…

Two months later…

Caroline was in Germany, but her heart still lived in India…Her letters revealed her nostalgic feelings… She kept enquiring about everyone with all affection…

Bheem visited Lolita regularly… She would read out those ‘special’ letters to him… He would listen intentively…When he took leave, his hands would be loaded with those loving gifts from Caroline…

One Sunday…

Dr. Majumdar was on a trip to Delhi for a conference on folk-arts. Lolita was alone at home…She finished her breakfast early and stepped out into the garden. When Caroline was there, Sundays would be buzzing with activity… Now it was very silent…

She relaxed on the garden chair and closed her eyes…

The phone rang – disturbing her thoughts… It was from Dr. Majumdar… He was arriving the next day, with Dev Gupta…

Dev was a close friend of Dr. Majumdar. His wife Roma and Lolita shared a lot of interests – gardening, cooking and house-keeping… Dev was a wonderful person. There was not a thing in this world that did not interest him… He was an expert at cooking and would often surprise Lolita with his recipes… He had a hearty laugh and cheerful eyes… Even a child would get attached to him in no time…

He had his own style of describing things… He would delve into the minutest detail and add a splash of color to it with his splendid photographs and sketches… No wonder his works had won worldwide acclaim…

Lolita proceeded to the market to buy vegetables and provisions… She had not seen him for quite some time…She planned a special lunch with all his favorite dishes…

At last her house was going to come alive again…

The next day…

Lunch was over. Dev settled on the sofa with a newspaper. Lolita fetched some betel leaves from the garden and rolled pan for him… He always loved that tangy taste…

Baba rang the bell. Lolita welcomed him and introduced him to Dev…Soon they were busy chatting on their favorite subject… Dev looked really impressed… He invited Baba to Delhi – a special program on performing arts was being organized the next month…Baba was thrilled at the opportunity…

Delhi…

Nandu was delighted to see the city before his very eyes…Dev showed them around and introduced Baba to all his friends… His family loved to hear Baba narrate stories… Even their baby seemed to enjoy his songs…

The program was a great success. Magazines gave special reports and there was even an interview on TV… Baba was moved to tears… All this attention was due to the efforts of one person – Dev. He thanked him with all his heart…

While packing his luggage, Roma requested him to carry some sweets and pickles for Lolita. He gladly agreed and offered to help her with the packing. As he spread some sheets of newspaper, he noticed the same photograph of Bheem, which won Caroline the prize…He was excited and requested Dev to read the news item…

But Dev had the shock of his life… He exclaimed that it was Bhairav – Kamli’s lover…

Baba was confused… Dev went on…

He was then in Hyderabad… It was a three-year research project… Kamli was a tribal girl from the nearby hamlet. She helped him with household work…A very friendly girl… hardworking too…

One night, it was raining heavily…Dev sat working at his desk… There was a knock at the door… Usually he did not have visitors at that hour…Wondering, he opened the door…

It was Kamli.

She was drenched to the core… He called her in and offered her some warm clothes…

She changed and seated herself on the floor. She looked worried…

Dev enquired about her problem. She was pregnant…

He was taken aback… Slowly, she confessed to him her affair with Bhairav…Her family was not aware of it… Now it was too late… She requested him to save her out of this situation and somehow convince Bhairav to marry her…

Dev felt sorry for the poor, innocent girl and made up his mind to do his best…

The next day, he talked to Bhairav…He was quite familiar to Dev as a trip guide…After a lot of persuasion he agreed, but reluctantly…

Meanwhile Kamli’s brothers somehow came to know of the affair and were enraged… Theirs was a community in which such things were considered taboo… They went rushing in search of Bhairav…

Dev had to intervene before things took a serious turn… The whole of Kamli’s family had assembled under the peepal tree… This was their custom whenever there was an issue to be settled…After a spate of heated arguments and a good deal of convincing, they finally agreed to the proposal…

Just then Kamli’s brothers came running… Bhairav was nowhere to be seen!

Dev stood speechless… Poor Kamli… her future was bleak…

The crowd dispersed slowly…

That evening, there was a big commotion… Kamli had attempted suicide… Some fishermen had rescued her… She was lying unconscious…Her stepmother cursed her to her heart’s content… No one seemed to have any pity on the poor girl… It looked almost as if she was ex-communicated…

Dev had to do something for Kamli… He offered to take her along to Delhi… The crowd did not expect this turn, but did not object either… In fact, Kamli’s stepmother seemed to be a bit relieved that she had finally got rid of the wretched girl…

Finally Kamli landed at Delhi and soon became part of Dev’s family…By and by she was back to her cheerful self…

Months passed by… Everyone was expecting the arrival of the baby… Kamli was overwhelmed by all their pampering and love…

There was hardly a week for her delivery, when she suddenly developed problems… Dev and his family did their best, but only the child could be saved… A bonny boy, Karna…

Baba stood speechless on hearing the whole story…Bheem had hidden the whole episode from Caroline and even changed his name… and she had trusted him to the core, loved him with all her heart… How would she be able to digest all this?

Lolita sat on her garden chair, waiting for Caroline’s letter… Bheem had arrived earlier than usual and was chatting with Dr. Majumdar. The postman came, but there was no letter… Bheem seemed a little upset… He got up, saying he was going out of town for two weeks and would collect the letter when he was back…

That night, when dinner was just over, there was a call from Dev…Baba was arriving the next evening… Lolita was already dreaming about those spicy pickles and delicious rossogollas…

Next morning…

Baba opened his luggage and handed over the packets to Lolita… His silence was very unusual…Unable to contain herself, she asked Baba what was troubling him. He poured out the whole story…

Lolita was aghast…Caroline’s love, efforts and sacrifice – was that all in vain?

Baba felt much relieved now… He insisted that the marriage should never happen and urged Lolita to do something before it was too late…

That night, Majumdar came home after a lecture… Dinner time was unusually silent… As he washed his hands, he noticed the troubled look on Lolita’s face…He softly touched her shoulder…As if waiting for it, she rushed into his strong arms and broke down … He held her tight…his warmth gave Lolita a lot of comfort…

A few moments passed. He just said, “Come on darling… we shall think about it tomorrow… now be a good girl…let’s go to sleep…”

But they couldn’t.

The next day there was a call from Caroline – she was arriving in about ten days with family…Lolita tried her best to hint at something, but Caroline’s childish excitement stopped her altogether…

Each day passed in anxiety and restlessness…

Caroline finally arrived…

Her family was delighted to be in India… Her father and Dr. Majumdar were busy chatting… Caroline’s mother was all admiration for Lolita’s collection of plants… And Caroline showed her brother around the house…

Lolita stood watching… How long was all this happiness going to last?

She tried her best to keep smiling…In the evening, Caroline organized a special show… Her family enjoyed it immensely…After a long gap, Lolita’s house echoed with fun and laughter…

That night Caroline received a call…But she did not share it with anyone…

Bheem was back too and Dr. Majumdar invited him home…Baba had brought Nandu along. Caroline’s brother wheeled away with him into the garden…

When Bheem came, the whole family was eagerly waiting in the hall…Caroline took him by the hand to the next room…

Half an hour passed in anxious silence…All of a sudden, Bheem rushed out of the room…His face wore a strange expression – was it anger? humiliation? or guilt?

Baba tried to stop him, but Caroline prevented him…

Bheem left in a huff…

Caroline’s parents looked confused and worried…Lolita softly asked her what happened…

The call last night was from Dev… He had told her the whole story and asked her to take a wise decision – as it was to last a lifetime…She was all pity for Kamli…had she known of it earlier, she would herself have married her off to Bheem…Now that Kamli was not alive, that question did not arise…

But the child, Karna…What wrong did he do? Why should he live separated from his own father?  So she had decided to keep the child with them after marriage… And this is what she had told Bheem in the room…

He did agree that the child was his, but did not want it to come between them… All the time, he was only trying to convince Caroline that the child was quite safe at Delhi and if she was so particular about the child, they could even meet all its expenses… In any case, he sounded most unwilling to accept the child…

This was too much for her…

She finally decided to give him a choice…

Either getting married and having the child with them… Or just saying good-bye forever…

Bheem could not accept the first…So he chose to leave her…

Caroline’s lovely eyes glistened as she spoke…

Lolita admired her firm decision… At the same time, felt sorry for her…

Caroline, however, was convinced…Bheem was not a man of sentiments… He could marry any girl of his choice and live happily… But she believed in values…

Of course, she did not deny her love for Bheem, but if she chose to live with him, it would cost the child the most precious thing in this world – parental love…

It may not be her own child, but she could still be a loving mother…

Lolita’s heart felt very light now… She cheered up everyone saying it was a great moment to celebrate…and walked towards the kitchen to prepare kheer – Caroline’s favourite…

The house echoed with happiness once again…

Caroline left for Germany with Karna…

The child had at last found its home…

Her dream was over… But it had a purpose.

About the Auhtor:

Uma Balu is a 44 year old writer and translator from Kerala in South India. She has a natural flair for languages and culture and she have been working as trainer, translator and program designer for the past 10 years. Her favorite hobbies are pencil sketching, painting, bird-watching, chalk-carving, working on school/college projects relating to history, culture and environment, meeting people from different parts of the world and different walks of life, writing stories/poetry, singing (various languages), etc. Currently she is working on launching her concept bookstore – Cafe Lingua. She has taken part in the South-Asian Translation Competition organised by KATHA, New Delhi and won the Best Translation Award for her entry Home-coming – a short story translated from Sri Lankan Tamil to English. She has also participated in the Shizuoka International Translation Competition, Japan. Two of her entries won awards in The Children’s Book Trust Competition, New Delhi.

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In 1965, India had more banyan trees than toilets across the country. Under one huge banyan tree, fifty-one tribesmen, naked to their loincloths, squatted on the ground, holding sticks in their hands for support, as if they were going to perform mass defecation exercise. Their wives, reasonably clothed and reasonably armed with cow dung patties, squatted under another banyan tree.

But no, there was no toilet business going to happen there.

With palms perched on their brows, the tribal folks were scanning the horizon for a white, Ambassador car. They had gathered to beat a politician who was due to arrive that afternoon.

From the sky, white-hot sun poured its angry rays on a beaten path, a winding river and an assortment of thatched roof huts, hardy shrubs and subtropical trees that covered the landscape. Boulders stood like dead creatures, their crevices teeming with insects seeking refuge from the burning wind.

The tribesmen were angry with the politician, because he was coming with an agenda, to pursue the tribesmen to vacate the forested land where they had lived for generations. The government was planning to build a dam in the area over the river, to quench the thirst of people living in a nearby city, called Paraspur. Three successive years of dry spell had dried out the love of government for the nature and the tribesmen. Using the art of statistics, the government had acquired a loan from World Bank to help the city folks. However, along with the thirst for water, the desire for money and showdown had also grown gradually and sparked battles among the tribesmen, government and a green group clamouring to preserve the forest.

Kuru, a 48-year-old tribesman had chosen not to be a part of that battle today. Not because, a man in Safari suit had bribed him earlier with packets of salt, jaggery, matchstick and beedies (locally produced cigarettes), but because he had a bigger battle to fight with his own life. A stone like lump had seized his neck and brought his life to standstill. His breath was believed to be poisonous, and his words were thought to bring evil fate.

He had invited such misfortune by bringing dishonour to his tribe.

For a pot of rice, he had stolen sacred stones from the tribe’s temple and secretly sold them to a professor in Paraspur, who was conducting research on ancient stones. The tribe found out about Kuru’s stealthy act when the greedy professor returned to buy more stones from Kuru. The chieftain of the tribe spat in the face of the professor, broke his spectacles and dignity with a hard slap, and warned him that if he ever came back, the tribe would bury him alive near an anthill.

The chieftain then turned his attention to Kuru and did something to him in private so vicious that Kuru could not walk on his feet from that day. His neck grew a small boil and then it continued to grow in size, from inside. The spirits of tribe’s ancestors, which routinely visited the body of chieftain’s wife, called Kuru a criminal of tribe, and issued him additional unholy punishments.

The chieftain expelled Kuru from the tribe. He also confiscated Kuru’s goat, his second wife and the pot of rice. He banned Kuru from growing moustache — a tribal symbol of pride and manhood.

Kuru’s hut therefore carried a cane of shame that whipped him whenever the tribe ran into a problem. The prospect of being rooted out of their land was one such latest problem for which Kuru’s sin was conveniently held responsible. The whip of shame had changed into a noose lately, and was suffocating Kuru’s sick and stagnant soul.

As he lay flat on the ground of his hut, he hinted his teenage daughter, Hola, to sit beside him. Hola was born during a solar eclipse, which had prompted the tribesmen into believing that her life would be full of eclipses. True to their premonition, Hola had lost her mother during childhood and was largely at the mercy of the mood of her stepmother, until the middle-aged woman was forced out from Kuru’s hut by the chieftain and made to work as slave.

Hunger and humiliations had now stolen the flesh from Hola’s body. Collarbones stuck out from her lanky frame like handlebars of a bicycle.

She perched on the haunches beside Kuru.

As Kuru stared at her, he felt the pain that she was brewing under the air of silence. She was not the same bubbly girl, who used to don flowers in hair and dance like a peacock. She had acquired the eyes of a dead girl, yes, dead girl, just like her dead mother. Kuru sighed. He could see in her eyes his own death, reminding him of the curse that he had received from the chieftain’s wife: “You’ll die in utter pain. Our tribe’s demon will stuff arrows in your chest, and with a bare hand, he’ll remove your soul in the presence of our ancestors.”

Kuru shuddered. The hair of his chest stood straight. He could now hear the voices of his ancestors, loud and clear. He understood that his end was near. The demon was on his way to punish him. It was time to bequeath his assets to Hola before he was gone. He reckoned that after his death, he would not be able to gain the rank of an ancestor amongst his tribe. His spirit would not be allowed to visit the body of chieftain’s wife, and seek honour from the tribe.

He sighed again and pointed at a wicker basket hidden in a corner. The basket contained a sacred stone that Kuru had still kept with him. “Go to the professor and give it to him,” he said in a voice that seemed to emerge from a cave. It was was low-pitched, barely above a whisper.

Hola stared at him blankly. Kuru was telling her to commit the same crime that he had committed. If she was caught, she would spend the rest of her life on the ground of the hut.

“He’ll give you rice. Uff, uff, uff.” Kuru coughed vehemently. Skin of his distended neck fluttered.

Any more word from that neck and it would break, Hola thought. With a short nod, she agreed. Her tongue brushed her arid lips.

Kuru raised his palm as if he was blessing her. He was happy. By bequeathing his biggest asset to his daughter, he had arranged a meal for her, no matter how long it would last. He had seen a strange, intense desire in professor’s eyes to buy that stone, but he had not sold it thinking that he would sell it in future when he would need money for Hola’s marriage.

He thought of giving tips to Hola on how to keep the sale secret, but then decided against it as the fear of his painful death besieged him.

He reached for the braided hair of his moustache, which he had kept for such an occasion. He placed the hair below his nose. He was now a wholesome man, complete with pride and manhood. He remembered how he had wooed his second wife using his long, manly moustache. He grinned; his is jaw rattled.

Hola placed her palm on his jaw.

Kuru checked that it was not the hand of a demon. He shook his body to confirm that arrows were not stuffed in his chest. And in a moment, he left the world happily, confuting and obliterating the curses that he carried. He was freed from the world without having to negotiate with the demon.

Hola watched his lifeless body. A bottle fly sat on her nose, scratched a pimple and flew away. But Hola neither hit it, nor jumped wildly to catch it.

Like a puppet, she touched Kuru’s cold feet, and then stood up. She drank the coconut milk that he had left for her, and wiped her mouth with a jute rag. Stone! With a little hesitation, she retrieved the sacred stone from the basket and looked at the stone-like lump grown on the neck of Kuru, as if trying to find a similarity between the two.

A crow cawed outside the hut. Perhaps, it was crying; perhaps it was celebrating the death of the tribe’s criminal. Hola was not sure. “Go away,” she murmured with a wave of hand and stepped outside the hut. She looked around. Should she beat her chest and scream loudly? Should she call old women of the tribe to arrange for mass wailing? She shrugged.

The tribe had abandoned her family. Now she had to finish the death rituals, all alone. But how? She tried to pray but words did not emerge from her mouth. Frustrated, she reached for a matchbox and set the hut on fire to finish Kuru’s last rituals. Kuru’s body burned with noise and possessions of the hut, including the packets of salt, jaggery and beedies.

The smoke quickly rushed in air and made irregular shapes. But Hola did not wait there to guess which shape belonged to which objects or animals, unlike what she would have done in some other circumstances.

She walked away without tears, words and wetness in her chest.

Her long, crispy hair played with the dust spewed by the car of the politician, who was arriving to negotiate the resettlement of the tribe.

Holding the stone tightly in her palm, Hola continued to walk in search of a meal of rice served without curses and eclipses.

A constipated bulbul blessed her with its prized, watery asset and spread its wings to explore an unknown horizon.

***

That day, the politician did not receive any beating from the tribe. The battle for the land was over even before it could begin, unlike another war that would break out the next day between India and Pakistan over the land of Kashmir.

The fire that rose from Kuru’s hut engulfed the entire area and incinerated the vegetation, tribal structures and most importantly, its label of a forested land. The terrain was cleared in few hours and turned to worthless ash. It was time for the dam to pour water on the resistant simmering in the minds of the tribesmen.

The burning huts prompted the tribesmen to think that after his death, Kuru had become a dangerous spirit who would now dispatch evil fate using his infernal powers. Terrified, they prayed to the spirit of Kuru and honoured him with the rank of an ancestor. Kuru — their new, fearsome ancestor — then showed up in the body of the chieftain’s wife, shook her like a tree, spat, uttered profanity and demanded fifty pots of rice with apologies. Kuru’s spirit however did not demand anything for his wife who had become furniture in the chieftain’s hut. The tribesmen arranged for pots of rice to please the spirit using the government’s money that they had received as a part of the resettlement package. The pots lined the hut of the chieftain.

Within a couple of weeks, a new habitat assimilated the tribe. It was situated a few kilometres away in a mountainous region.

The people of Paraspur city breathed with relief. They re-elected the politician during the next election, but stormed the office of the green group, which was petitioning the World Bank to withdraw the loan. “Hang the tree-huggers,” shouts rose in air and silenced the group. The police later recovered five tree-huggers, three men and two women, hanging from their necks by ropes on a tree.

Unfortunately, Hola, who had unknowingly resolved the territorial dispute with a single stick of matchbox, had to continue her journey in search of food and the professor. Streets of Paraspur swallowed her, as she wandered around and begged with her bag-of-bone frame and the eyes of a dead girl.

Yes, dead girl.

About the Author:

Pranav S. Joshi is a multitalented environmental professional, a novelist and a poet. He holds a Ph.D. degree in Chemistry and an M.Sc. degree in Environmental Engineering. His literary, multicultural novel, Behind a Cultural Cage, depicts the life of a Chinese Indian man (a Chindian), who possesses an Indian mind in a Chinese body. The novel was widely received in Singapore’s literary circles. Pranav has also written numerous poems, and technical papers and manuals. He has given talks on local radio and during events organized by the Art House and the National Library in Singapore. He is 44-year-old, and currently holds Singapore citizenship.  For more details, visit his website.

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Why don’t you submit your best short story to the
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It was raining that night. A howling ambulance came to a stop with a screech. The door opened, and two paramedics got out. Their white canvas shoes splashed water on the wet street as they rushed to the back of the car and pulled out a stretcher with a plastic covering over it. It soon went sleek in the rain, lightning reflected on it. Together they wheeled the cart towards a throng of people standing about despite the rain, murmuring.

“…a hit and run, it seems…”

“…so young…”

“…died on impact…”

“…still wearing school uniform…”

“…the police.. notify the family…”

The stretcher came to a stop near a parked police car. Its hood lamp was on, blinking streak of light that turned everybody’s complexion blue. A young policeman with green raincoat sat in the car, talking over the radio. He got out to meet the chief, a sturdy man with long overcoat and dripping hat, striding towards the car.

“…called the family and asked them to meet us at the hospital. She was totaled, Sir, I’ve never seen anything like this.” The paramedics were zipping the bag when they walked over.

The chief raised a hand and the cart stopped beside him. He pulled the zipper down and parted the cover slightly. Lightning burst once more, this time reflected on a perfect smile upon the corpse’s lips. A drop of rain fell on the chief’s wristwatch and jumped on to the lips, moistening them. The chief closed the bag and shook his head.

It was a bright day, the sun rays bounced over the roofs of nearby buildings. The topmost of the school was deserted; no one usually went upstairs. But a girl has come there specially, waited, and a boy has answered her summon. He had just emerged from the door when the girl turned and smiled at him.

“Thank you for coming,” she started, and bowed. He just gave an awkward shrug. They were classmates, that’s all he knew, but he was curious at why he was called up here.

“I like you,” she said shyly, but loud enough for him to hear. “Please accept my feelings.” A hue of pink ran across her cheeks. Wisps of hair escaped from her ponytail and flowed with the wind. She bit her lower lip. The boy gaped at her and started scratching his non-itchy head.

“Err…” he stuttered.

She could see him fidgeting from her bent position. Suddenly she wanted to giggle. Instead, she stood straight, tilted her head to one side,  and smiled.

“Don’t think about it,” she assured him, “I just want to be your friend.” It wasn’t her actual intention, but she’d compromise. She offered a hand for him to shake. “So, are we?” He relaxed and took it. “Sure.” They grinned, then he left, waving.

She let out a deep breath and laughed. There were butterflies in her tummy then, but she had let them go. She walked over to the railing, pulling her ponytail as she did. The sun felt comforting, she closed her eyes.

The door burst open to reveal four panting girls. They were loaded with lunch of milk cartons, soda and sandwiches. “Hina-chan!” they shouted. One of them gave Hina her lunchbox, covered in red and white polka-dot handkerchief. They picked a spot in the shade and sat down, opening their lunch.

“How was it?” they asked. She laughed at the question. “Yeah, I told him,” she said simply, and struggled with the knot of her bento. Her friends hold their breath. “We’re friends now,” she finished, and a choir of frustration rose among them.

“You pathetic! You’ve liked him since last year and now you’re just friends?” They scowled, but Hina just laughed.

“I only wanted to tell him how I feel,” she told them. She took an egg roll. “And I’m glad I did,” she said, and chewed, smiling triumphantly.

The same smile was pictured perfectly on the chief’s mind now. “Goodness,” he said, “how could she smile that peacefully?” The ambulance drove away. “Where are her things?” he asked his aide. “In my car, Sir.” When he opened the back door, the first thing he laid eyes on was the polka-dot handkerchief, bloody now, wrapped in a clear evidence plastic bag.

“You woke early.”

Hina turned and smiled. She was arranging egg rolls in her lunchbox. In it were already two nori-wrapped nigiris and vegetables tempura. At the corner of the simple kitchen, was a stove and a buzzing coffeemaker.

“I thought of helping you with breakfast,” said Hina, while Mom poured herself coffee. Mom took a swig and set the mug down, reaching for an apron. She put it on and started preparing rice congee. Hina rinsed her chopsticks, then dried them.

“How’s that math exam?” Mom asked, yawning. Her daughter hated math. “I could do well this time, Mom,” said Hina confidently. Mom frowned. “Really?” That was a first. “If the result came out as well as you said, I’ll buy you that hair band you liked so much.” Hina turned and gaped at her mom. “Just that?” Mom rolled her eyes, and flicked her daughter with wet vegetables. “Okay, okay. Also a new jacket.” Hina grinned.

She wrapped the chopsticks with tissue, slipped them in the lunch bundle, then carried it over to her rabbit schoolbag. Lovingly she stroked the drooping ear of the bunny.

The bunny was in another plastic, blood dripped from the tip of its ear. Its neck was torn. The chief ran his fingers along the tear, then pulled out a book. It was math, and a piece of paper stuck out from one corner. Eighty-seven was the mark on it.

“Great work, Hina,” said the teacher, and put the paper on Hina’s desk. Blushing, Hina folded the paper and slipped it carefully in her math book.

From another plastic, the chief pulled out a girl’s wallet and a crushed candy-on-a-stem with pink bow. The bow had been curled, but crinkled now, and spotted with dark red marks. The stem bent. He pulled the curl and let it go, then opened the wallet. A picture laid there, four faces smiled up at him; Dad, Mom, Hina, and a little boy. The boy had one tooth.

The baby sat in his chair, almost too big for it now, and was knocking his table with a spoon when a yawn interrupted. He yawned widely, exposing four teeth. Then he put the spoon in his mouth and sucked. Accidently the spoon fell down to the floor with a click. He stared at it over the side of his chair and reached. When he realized he couldn’t get it, he hiccupped and frowned. His eyes teared.

Hina tweaked the tip of Tatsu’s nose. “Halt,” she said. Pulling Tatsu into her arms, she pointed at their Mom flipping fried egg by the stove. “Look, Tat-chan. Ain’t Mom clever? Do it again, Mom, show Tat-chan how clever you are.”

“Ooo-kay,” said Mom. “Tat-chan, don’t close your eyes!” Flipped. The baby laughed, spoon forgotten. “You like it, huh, Tat-chan? Hurry and grow up quickly so you can do it yourself! Show Nee-chan how to do it for once.” Hina raised Tatsu high above her head, making the boy giggled even more. Morning sunlight found a twinkle in his eyes.

In the other room, was Dad. His hair still dripped water from the shower. On the desk were heaps of papers, an old suitcase and a clay pencil case. It was shaped by young hands, bearing the title ‘My Dad’s my Hero.’ Dad shoved a handful of papers into his bag. He grabbed his tie, and hurried to the kitchen.

When he entered, the atmosphere suddenly changed. Laughter ceased. Mom turned to the stove to resume cooking. Hina put Tatsu back in his chair and gave him his spoon.

Dad put his suitcase by his chair and went for coffee. Mom put the eggs on the table, then began ladling congee for everybody but herself. Hina shared her congee with Tatsu, who gurgled and kept knocking on the table. Dad took one of the eggs into his bowl and ate in silence.

Mom sat across Tatsu and stared into her mug. The baby started to reach for her with his spoon, while Hina finished her breakfast and stood to do the dishes. But she didn’t do it straight away. She stared at the window. There, she could see the reflection of the kitchen; she had seen it far too often now. She could also see the hurt in her eyes.

Tatsu knocked Dad’s coffee mug with his spoon and the spoon flew towards Mom. Without thinking, Mom caught it in midair. Dad froze. Tatsu clapped his pudgy hands. Then he blew raspberry at Dad. Silently, Hina smiled, and began soaping the dishes.

“Tat-chan said, he’s a witness of how clever Mom is at catching things. I believe, Dad is also clever, if he’d spend more time at home. I bet he wouldn’t drop a single one,” said Hina softly, washing a bowl.

Dad’s spoon froze in midair towards his mouth. Mom’s coffee simmered. Even Tatsu went silent. Then the ice was broken by his squeal.

Hina rinsed, and dried her hands. Then she shouldered her bunny-bag and her bento. She walked towards Tatsu, hugged him so tight he screamed then kissed him wetly on the cheek.

She tilted her head to one side and said, “See you tonight, Mom.” Mom was still holding the spoon with one hand, but managed to nod and gave a lopsided smile. Shyly, Hina wrapped her arms around Dad’s neck and whispered, “Have a great day at work, Dad.” Then she ran to the door and put on her shoes.

The front door was beside Dad’s study. Hina caught a glimpse of the paper-strewn room and her eyes teared. With clumsy fingers, she tried to tie her shoelaces to no avail. Back in the kitchen, Mom and Dad’s eyes locked. When Hina was sure she couldn’t hold her tears any longer, she heard Dad cleared his throat.

“Wanna walk together to the station?” Dad asked, eyes still on his wife. Hearing this, a lone tear slipped across Hina’s cheek. “S-sure,” she croaked. “I’ll wait outside.” Hina gripped the edge of her skirt tightly, casted one last glimpse at her father’s study, gritted her teeth, and slipped outside. She let the door opened slightly and listened intently to her parents.

Dad stood and put on his tie. Hesitantly, Mom stood too, and helped him. He stroke her with one finger and she caught the whole hand and pressed it to her cheek. “I’m sorry I was too busy,” he whispered, but loud enough for Hina to hear. “Let’s go to the beach this weekend.” Mom nodded. “The children will be delighted.” Then he kissed her softly. Outside, another tear rolled down Hina’s cheek. She knew now that her father had come to his senses. When he came out from the house, she threw him a wide smile. He was her hero after all.

A torn paper bag was also there, wet from the rain. When the chief pulled its content, it gave. Inside were bits from a big water cress.

At Grandpa Sei’s vegetable field, the water cress was a beauty. In the afternoon sun, Grandpa Sei sat in his wheelchair holding a sprinkler.

“Hina-chan, come play chess with Granny!”

“But you beat me all the time!”

“What about rubbing Grandpa’s back?”

“I’ll ask Grandpa Sei to make you some ointment!”

Grandpa Sei rolled his eyes, but his smile widened nevertheless. He watched Hina ran across the field to him. “Watering the field?” asked Hina. “I thought today’s gonna rain,” she sniffed the air. “Bah,” said Grandpa. “You spend too much time with that crazy fortuneteller at D block, you start to talk like her.” He wheeled and put the canister on the ground. “And why did you promise old Hiro another bottle of my ointment? You think I made them for free?”

Hina stifled a laugh. She linked her arms with Grandpa’s and winked. “So I’m fired?” Grandpa knocks her forehead and laughed. “Silly girl,” he grunted. “Before I’d fire you, I should begin to pay you salary.”

It’s been a few months now that Hina had worked in the field. Grandpa Sei acted as her superintendent, telling her what to do and how. He grew herbs and vegetables to share with his fellow friends in the nursing home. He made ointment, too, because he didn’t trust modern balm.

When the sun was low on the horizon, they stopped working. A nurse came bringing them chilled lemonade and they sat sipping it; Grandpa in his chair, Hina on the ground. One of the grannies was biding farewells to her son and grandchildren. Watching this, Grandpa Sei clutched his glass tightly.

“Grandpa,” she chided. The old man blinked his wet eyes. “We promised, no more sentimental scenes.” She kneeled by his chair and took his hand in hers. “I know,” he said hoarsely, “but I miss my grandson. It’s been four years since my daughter brought him here.” He took his hand out and clenched it. “I know when I was put here, I was being thrown away.”

“Grandpa,” again she chided. “Why should we ruin a day with sadness?” She hold both his hands now, gently rubbing them. “It’s a wonderful thing that we were given another day to life. Another day to feel the longing. We should be thankful. You told me that yourself, remember?”

She stood and walked towards the setting sun. “If the sun refuses to set at dusk, what would it be? Surely we won’t miss his warmth and loving light if he doesn’t .” When she turned to Grandpa, she was smiling, but he couldn’t see it; she shone so bright.

She took her glass of lemonade and clanked it with his. There was no need for words, no need for hugs. Especially no need for tears. The tilted head of the girl and the crinkled corners of the man’s eyes both sparked the same smile; they understood.

“By the way, Grandpa,” she said all of a sudden. “Thank you for teaching me math. I got a good mark,” she raised a V with her fingers. “Darn. I lost the bet,” he put down his glass and turned away from the field. “Go on, take all you want from my precious vegetables. I can’t see this..” he shook his head sadly. She laughed so hard, but she picked her prize anyway.

“That one, Grandpa,” she pointed. “I don’t care, take them all,” moaned Grandpa, “I’ll just plant some more.” He winked, “Better ones.” Hina puts her arms around his shoulder. “I’ll help you, Grandpa.”

The chief closed the door. “We’d better go to the hospital now. Her parents are probably waiting.” His aide opened the passenger seat for him and let himself behind the wheel, while raindrops continued to make puddles of water on the road.

Hina left the nursery home clutching the paper bag. After a while, she heard thunder, so she took out her jacket from her bunny-bag. The jacket was yellow, and torn by the elbow. When she picked up her belongings from the ground, she looked up and saw a white bird, flying home before the rain. One by one, raindrops fell down; first on her bunny’s nose then her forehead. She wore her hood and kept walking. Once she stopped in front of a children fashion store to look at a cute hooded jacket. A woman and her child got out from the store; the mother opened an umbrella while the child hold on to a goodie-bag. Then, they left holding hands. Hina also walked on.

The chief took Dad’s hand in a tight grip. Dad had an arm around Mom who was sobbing while holding Tatsu who was also crying. The younger policeman arrived with Hina’s belongings and hesitated by the door. Mom took one look at the bunny-bag and screamed, then dropped to the floor, bringing wailing Tatsu with her. Dad couldn’t control his tears either.

Hina stopped at the intersection and waited for the lights. It was raining quite heavily, it was hard to see things. Most people decided to wait before continuing on their way, but Hina wanted to get home before dinner. When the light came, she crossed. She was right in the middle of the road when a speeding car turned sharply and on towards her. There was a smiling-sun décor hanging by the rear-view mirror of the car, and it jingled wildly. Then it was only the sound of screeching tires and people screaming. The bunny-bag was facedown on the road, its contents scattered.

On one of the tables in a dark room, she laid. Covered with a rough blanket, the tip of her skirt hung from the table, dripping water to the floor. A nurse came in and turned on the lights. She took the blanket off and hung a label from the girl’s toe. It read “Hinata Shiratori.” The nurse put out the lights and closed the door behind her. Even in the dark, the smile was still there, ethereal and eternal.

Glossary:

Saigo no Egao: Eternal Smile
-chan: an endearment to call children in Japan
Nee-chan: elder sister
bento: lunchbox
nori: paper-shaped seaweed
nigiri: rice wrapped with nori
tempura: a style of Japanese cooking, where you coat food with flour and deep-fry them

About the Author:

Caecilia Xie is a 32 year old writer. She was born in the city of Bandung, Indonesia, but with Chinese origin. She used to be a journalist and then editor for Union of Catholic Asia News (UCA News) for about three years. She is currently working as a chef at her own café, Eledandore. When she gets home at night, before bed, she sits in front of her computer and writes. Usually only her friends read her works, but she did publish a short story in a local magazine. Together with her friends, she is trying her luck in comics industry, where she writes and they draw. Originally, Saigo no Egao was one of thier comic scripts, but when she decided to transform it into a short story, her friends told me to go for it.

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